“He’ll be out on the fifth,” said the man, methodically buttering a scone.
His wife stopped with her teacup halfway to her mouth. “He—said that?”
“They told me. When I stopped to see him today.”
“But he didn’t speak to you?”
George’s jaw tightened. “No.”
“You told him he’s coming home?”
“I told him. He just looked at me.”
Beatrice lowered her head, the lines around her mouth deepening.
“He’ll be all right once he gets here,” said her husband. “You’ll see.”
“It’ll be nice,” said Beatrice, with desperate brightness, “to have him home again. Won’t it.”
“Yes,” said George in a thin voice, “very nice.”
“You’re wanted by Her Majesty,” called Bluebell from the top of the Spiral Stair, and Knife, four turns down on her way to breakfast, stopped short. “What?” she said.
“I said, the Queen wants you. At once.”
Grudgingly Knife turned around and trudged back up to the landing where Bluebell stood. “Why?” she asked.
Bluebell ignored the question. Instead, she walked briskly along the corridor, pulled aside the curtains, and ushered Knife into the Queen’s private audience chamber.
“I have summoned you,” said Amaryllis from her throne, “because I have just received news that the crow known as Old Wormwood has returned.”
Knife was startled. How could he have come back to the Oakenwyld without her knowing it? But the Queen went on:
“One of the Gatherers reported that a large crow attacked their party just after dawn, as they were heading toward the wood. They were fortunate enough to find places to hide before it could harm them, but two of the workers had nervous fits and had to be carried back. I would prefer that this not happen again.”
“You want me to kill him?” asked Knife.
“I would not ask you to take such a risk,” said the Queen. “He has killed one Hunter already; I do not wish to lose another. No, your task will be to escort the Gatherers whenever they go out. Their work is vital to our survival, and nothing must be permitted to hinder them.”
Guard duty. Inwardly Knife groaned, but she kept her voice polite as she said, “For how long?”
“As long as the threat remains. I trust you will still be able to carry out your own duties while you wait for the Gatherers to finish theirs?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Then you are dismissed.”
Knife bowed and left the room with every appearance of calm, but her thoughts were in turmoil. The Gatherers had spotted Old Wormwood before she did—that was a serious blow. It was the Hunter’s task to watch for predators, and she had failed in that duty….
“Did the Queen tell you?” said a timid voice at her elbow, and Knife turned to see Holly, the Chief Gatherer, standing there.
“About Old Wormwood?” she said. “Yes.”
“He’s huge.” Her eyes were haunted. “And fast—I’ve never seen a crow move that fast before. He pecked a hole straight through Linden’s basket.” She shuddered visibly before going on: “So will you be coming with us tomorrow? The others—we all want to know.”
“I’m coming,” said Knife.
“You’ll meet us right at sunrise? And you’ll stay with us all the way to the forest and back again?”
“I’ll bring my bow,” Knife told her. “And I’ll keep close watch. I won’t let the crow get near you.”
Color rushed back into Holly’s face, a pink wave of relief. She bobbed a curtsy and hurried back down the Spiral Stair.
Knife followed in gloomy silence, fingers drumming on the sheathed blade at her side. There was no help for it: Her duty was clear. She must put her curiosity about the humans aside, and concentrate on the task the Queen had given her. The double load of work would be exhausting, and now it might be weeks before she found out what had happened to Paul.
It would be so much easier if she could put the humans out of her mind, convince herself that they didn’t matter. But she couldn’t forget the woman’s stricken face, or the man’s voice cracking on the words very nice.
Perhaps she was getting too attached to the humans.
Over the next few days Knife carried out the Queen’s command, watching over the Gatherers as they worked. Once she had seen them safely across the open field, she busied herself with her own duties, hunting when they foraged and dressing her kills while they unloaded their baskets at the Oak. All the while she kept an eye out for Old Wormwood, but there was no sign of him.
Sometime during that week—though when exactly, Knife never knew—Paul arrived at the House. Despite her weariness, Knife did everything she could to catch a glimpse of him, but he always seemed to be in his room with the curtains drawn, or the lights turned out, or both.
“He doesn’t say a word to me all day,” Beatrice sobbed. “Never a single word. He looks through me like I’m not there.”
“There’s no excuse for it,” her husband said, setting down his teacup with unnecessary force. “There’s nothing wrong with his tongue, or his brain. It’s just stubbornness, that’s all.”
“George, don’t,” implored the woman. “Be patient with him. He’s been through so much—we don’t know what might be wrong.”
And I don’t even know what he looks like, thought Knife in frustration. A blight on Old Wormwood, and the Queen, and all her precious Gatherers, too—this has been the longest week of my life.
That week, however, came to an abrupt and spectacular end when Knife, with eight weary Gatherers in tow, climbed up the slope at the Oakenwyld’s western border to find a peculiar obstacle blocking their way to the Oak. Through a gap in the hedge Knife glimpsed a flash of sunlight on polished metal, the black-edged curve of an enormous wheel. With a chopping motion she directed the others to lie flat, and crawled beneath the bushes to examine the monstrous machine more closely.
She assumed it was some new gardening tool that the humans had left on the lawn, but as soon as she emerged from the hedge she realized her mistake. Great Gardener. It’s him.
He sat upon a silver throne, a book laid open on his knees: a young king, uncrowned and plainly dressed. He was slim, with broad shoulders and long arms wiry with muscle, and Knife thought he must be nearly as tall as his father when he stood. The wind blew his pale hair across his brow; he shook it back with an impatient movement of his head—
And froze, staring. At her. At Knife.
She couldn’t move. Her mouth worked dryly; her hand quivered on the hilt of the dagger at her hip. All the while those blue eyes regarded her unblinking, while wonder dawned on Paul McCormick’s face. She was only just out of reach; one lunge would put her in his grasp. But he did not move.
“Paul!” came a shrill cry from the direction of the House.
He turned his head toward the sound, and the spell shattered; Knife dove back through the hedge to find the shivering Gatherers waiting for her.
“I’m coming to bring you in,” Beatrice shouted across the lawn. “It’s time for tea.”
“What do we do?” whimpered Clover, her nails digging into Knife’s arm. Knife grimaced and shook her off.
“Just wait,” she breathed. “He’ll be gone in a moment.”
They all went still, listening to the crunch of footsteps on the fresh-mown grass. Just visible on the other side of the hedge, the woman’s stocking-clad legs appeared. “There now,” she said, and the wheels of the silver throne turned toward the House.
“You were right beside him,” whispered Holly in Knife’s ear. “So close—to a human. Weren’t you afraid?”
“No,” said Knife distractedly, watching Paul’s seated figure shrink toward the House and finally vanish through the back door. She turned to the others. “It’s safe now. Pick up your baskets and let’s go.”
“Did he see you?” squeaked another voice.
Knife ducked under the hedge and bega
n walking toward the Oak, not looking back.
“Of course not,” she said.
Six
Knife lay on her bed, staring at the gnarled ceiling of her room. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Paul was still sitting in his wheeled throne, looking at her.
She couldn’t believe she had just stood there like that, right in front of a human. Perhaps it was the shock. She had been too astonished to feel afraid, or even to move. And fortunately he had been just as astonished, or she might not be here right now.
Yet it wasn’t just shock that had made Knife linger by Paul’s side: It was fascination. This was the boy she had met when she first stepped out of the Oak eight summers ago, after all, and part of her had always longed to see him again….
She flopped over onto her stomach, rubbing her eyes. Stupid girl, she told herself. He might not want to eat you, but he could still stomp you flat in an instant. Or worse, he could put you in a cage and keep you there until you die. He’s human, and you’re a faery—you’re nothing alike.
A soft tapping sounded at her door. “Hello?” she said, but there was no reply.
Mystified, Knife rose, lit her candlestick, and went to answer. She stepped out onto the landing and looked around, but all the doors were closed. Had she imagined that knock?
Then her foot struck something solid, and she bit back a yelp as it skittered away across the floor. Some crawling insect—? But no, it was just a small parcel, with her name printed on it. When she picked it up and tore off the wrappings, it turned out to be a book.
More puzzled than ever, Knife went back into her room and sat down on the sofa to examine it. Easing open the cover, feeling the worn leather flake and crackle beneath her fingers, she began to read.
I have never before tried to keep a diary, but Laurel says it is a worthy exercise; and as there is no one whose writings I admire more, I should be foolish not to take her advice. Still, even as I pen these words, I find myself at a loss for what to say. Had I a remarkable friend like Dr. Johnson, I should have no lack of diverting incidents to record, but alas, I am no Boswell.
Knife stared at the tiny, elegant handwriting. Dr. Johnson, Boswell…Those were human names. The writer must have lived when the ties between the Oak and the human world were closer—and if so, this diary might help her find the answers she’d been looking for.
Nevertheless, for the sake of my imagined reader I must give myself a proper introduction: Heather by name, one and forty summers of age, born in the reign of good Queen Snowdrop, and now appointed Seamstress of the Oak. I have an apprentice, named Bryony….
That confirmed it, thought Knife with a flare of excitement. She had never heard of Heather, but she knew her own egg-mother’s history well enough: The old Bryony had become the Oak’s Seamstress in the last few years of Queen Snowdrop’s reign, then served for nearly a century before dying and passing that role to her own apprentice, Wink. So this diary had been written near the end of the Days of Magic—exactly the time in the Oak’s history she needed to know about.
Somehow, thought Knife as she smoothed out the crumpled second page, whoever had sent her this book must have known she was trying to find out about the Oakenfolk’s past. Campion, perhaps? But surely it would have been easier for her to just slip the diary onto the back shelf and wait for Knife to find it?
Slowly she turned the diary’s pages. The first few entries were disappointingly ordinary: Heather had found a new lace pattern and was eager to try it; she approved of the chemise her apprentice had just made; and so on. It was like living with Wink all over again, and Knife was about to put the book down when the next line caught her attention:
Jasmine returned to the Oak today, much to everyone’s surprise. No one dared ask why she had come back, for she was full of black looks and could not give a civil word to anyone. I am sure Queen Snowdrop will want to speak to her; she has always been a difficult creature, and now she is insupportable.
Jasmine…The name tweaked at Knife’s memory. She felt sure she had heard it before, but where?
Azalea says that Jasmine should be called to account for abandoning her post, but the Queen appears to feel more kindly toward her. Indeed, she has forbidden anyone to question Jasmine, and says that she will by no means allow her to be punished.
Knife frowned at the page. What did abandoning her post mean? Had Jasmine been sent on some important assignment? But if so, what?
The only idea she could think of was that Jasmine might have been sent out as an ambassador to another faery Wyld. But the Oakenfolk had not seen or heard from any of their fellow faeries in centuries, so she would have had to search for them first. Curiosity rekindled, Knife read on.
…Jasmine came to my room today, bringing with her a gown which she said was in need of mending. I was tempted to refuse, yet I could not help but exclaim aloud when I saw it, for the bodice was badly torn and one sleeve ripped quite away. The skirt was blackened almost to the knee, as though she had fallen in the mire, and it seemed to me that if this were the gown in which she had returned home, it was little wonder the others had found her ill-tempered. Pity overcame me, and I told her I should have it mended in a fortnight.
“And how shall I repay you for your services?” she asked.
I knew I ought not to pry, yet my curiosity was too great to resist. “Knowledge,” I said. “What misfortune befell you, that you should return to the Oak?”
Her lips pressed tightly together. “I cannot speak of it,” she said. “Suffice it to say that I believe I can better serve our people here.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said, for I saw that I had grieved her.
“No matter,” she said. “If curiosity is a fault, it is one I share.
But I shall offer you knowledge more suited to your craft—some sketches of clothing I saw when Outside, perhaps?”
“Oh!” I said, much surprised. “Could you?”
“Certainly. I have gained some little skill as an artist, since I went away.” She smiled, but her eyes remained bitter. “It would be pleasant to put the talent to more…worthy use.”
I could not think what to say to that, and we stood a moment in silence. Then Jasmine continued in a lighter tone: “I shall bring you the drawings soon. A fortnight before the gown is mended, you say? I should not like to press you, for I know that you do fine work; but I fear that I have little else to wear.”
“I shall have it ready in a few days,” I told her, for now I truly did pity her. She inclined her head to me, and left.
I have always felt inferior in Jasmine’s presence, and tempted to fault her for it; but now I see that my thoughts have been unkind, and that she has suffered more than any of us guessed. I think that I shall exhort the other faeries to show her more kindness—but discreetly, for Jasmine is proud even in her disgrace, and would no doubt be offended if she thought I was gossiping about her.
Knife was tempted to read on, but by now she was so tired, she could scarcely see the page. She pulled out one long white hair and used it to mark her place, then shut the diary and crawled into bed.
The next morning Knife found the Gatherers lined up in front of the Queen’s Gate as usual, shouldering their baskets and discussing their plans for the day. She could hear Holly’s voice raised above the general chatter: “…done well these past few days, especially as it hasn’t rained until now. We’re well stocked with berries and greens, so…”
All at once she caught sight of Knife and stopped, swallowing visibly. The other Gatherers also fell silent and averted their eyes.
“What?” asked Knife, but no one answered until Holly cleared her throat to reply:
“I think we won’t be needing you today after all. The crow seems to have moved on, so we should be all right on our own for a while.” She looked around at the others. “You agree, don’t you?”
They all nodded.
“All right,” said Knife, perplexed. “It’s all the same to me. I’ll be out hunting later anyway; if you nee
d me you can always shout.”
Holly looked relieved. “Yes. We’ll do that. Everyone ready? Let’s go.”
Knife watched until the Gatherers had filed out and shut the door behind them. What had all that been about? Surely they couldn’t be frightened of her just because she had gone near a human?
Eventually she shrugged, and headed off toward the kitchen. If her services weren’t going to be needed right away, she might as well have a proper breakfast—and then, perhaps, she’d pay a visit to the library. Reading Heather’s diary had made her curious about the reign of Queen Snowdrop, and she wanted to see what the old histories had to say.
She was surprised, on reaching the kitchen, what a blaze they had going in the fireplace. Usually the cooking fire was kept modest during the summer months, to keep the inside of the Tree from becoming too stuffy.
Still, that was the kitchen workers’ problem and not hers, and furthermore they all kept looking at her askance as though finding her presence unwelcome, so she poured herself a cup of hot chicory and headed off to the library.
Campion was sitting at the desk when she arrived. The catalog lay open before her, and she dipped her pen mechanically into the inkwell as she stroked out one entry after another. Her head was down, her face hidden behind her hair, but the fingers that gripped the quill were trembling.
“Campion, what—” began Knife, but at the same moment she glanced toward the back of the library, and the words froze on her tongue.
The door to the secret closet stood open, and a trail of ashy footprints led into it and out again. The shelves were empty, the precious books on humans all gone.
“What happened?” demanded Knife, rounding on Campion. “Who did this?”
Campion slowly put the quill back in the inkpot and looked up. Her face was colorless, her eyes so full of fury that Knife took a hasty step back, afraid the other woman might strike her.